


Prince

by Dunah (orphan_account)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Deepthroating, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Dunah
Summary: A successful revolt against the Galra Empire has Prince Keith as their prisoner. Despite all odds, Lance finds he can’t turn a blind eye to his suffering—and resolves to set him free.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Medieval AU. Although place and concept names are taken from the show, all characters are human. No non-con occurs between Keith and Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit non-con in this chapter.

The throne room smelled of iron. The pale morning threaded through the curtains and cast dappled lights onto the bodies of Galran knights. A torn violet flag lay draped across the steps, the insignia of the Empire sullied by rebel footprints.

Prince Keith himself knelt in the pool of blood.

Even surrounded by carnage and loss, his face remained steadfast. Brows pulled together in anger, he looked up indignantly, teeth bared in rage.

“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with,” he spat.

“You’re in no position to order us around, Galran scum.” A rebel soldier stepped forward and casually kicked the prince’s head into the ground, letting him taste a mouthful of his own kin’s blood. “Well, not anymore, at least.” The soldier chuckled and crouched, grinning down at the incensed prince. “You see, spending years toiling under your empire’s flag made me realize something. Being dead is easy. Being alive and at the whims of your masters?” He tilted his head. “Not so much.”

The rebels gathered closer, hungry eyes like polished stones. Keith shuddered—from hatred or fear, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t move, not with his hands tied behind him, ropes digging burns into his wrists. Then the first man put his hand onto his shoulder, and he lashed out, twisting away and snarling—but it didn’t matter where he went. They were all around him, closing in, trapping him in an arena of terror, their hands reaching out like snakes.

For a moment his mind couldn’t comprehend what was happening—why hadn’t they killed him yet?—but then it struck him like a brick. He seized up. A hand pushed his face into the drying blood on the floor. He groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as hands groped down his body, tearing his clothing away and casting it aside. The air was cold against his flesh, and he twisted and struggled in vain.

“Fuck you,” Keith growled into the ground. “You’re fucking animals.”

The rebel behind him laughed. “‘Fuck’ indeed,” he said, and then his finger breached Keith’s entrance. Keith bit back a scream, his eyes widening. Humiliation and pain tore through him like a meteor. He tried again to wiggle away, but hands held him down, and there was no one to help him; he was the last of the Galra in the room, and his brethren lay slain on the stone tiles.

The pace quickened, and so too did the throbs of discomfort. The sounds of the prince’s frantic breathing made the men grow excited and impatient. The finger withdrew, and Keith tensed, preparing himself for whatever intrusion was to come next. Something large and hard and hot prodded against his hole. His eyes widened and he tried to scramble forward, but a hand grabbed him by the hair and held him in place.

“This is how our people felt when you invaded and violated our lands,” a rebel whispered, and then the intrusion shoved its way inside. Keith could not silence the scream this time as the rebel tore him asunder; it was thick, and huge; it felt too large to fit; he thought his gut would break open from the assault. But it didn’t. The man kept going. Again and again he pushed inside, sending burning agony through the prince’s veins. His cries echoed the halls. His fingers scrambled for purchase but slid futilely in the puddles of drying blood. His vision blurred; the jeers of the men around him had become like a single sound, a cacophony of laughter that brought blood to his cheeks and tears to his eyes.

And then the rebel suddenly stopped, rammed all the way inside. He just stayed there for a moment, as if relishing in the union of his body with the prince’s. Keith panted, blinking away the tears. Was it over? Would they kill him now, like this, now that his dignity had been snatched from him? He tried to move away—but then the man groaned, his head throwing back, and a flood of hot liquid spilled into Keith’s body. The prince seized up, a breath catching in his throat.

The man slipped out from his entrance, now twitching from the violation it had just experienced. Keith gasped, his body trembling. His limbs shook and he tried to summon up words—but nothing came, nothing at all, as if his mind had blanked, the only thing left in the vestiges of his memory the torment he had just experienced.

A rebel lifted his head by the hair, cold eyes staring directly into his. “Galran soldiers raped our wives and daughters,” said the rebel. “It’s only fitting you know the terror you put our families through.”

Keith’s mouth opened and closed. His mind felt like mud. Before he could say anything, another person had lined up behind him and eased their way in. His stomach turned from how it felt. It wasn’t as acutely painful as the first time, though it still burned. The semen inside of him made it go in smoother. But he cried out anyways, and this time let the tears flow. Honor and pride were long gone by now. He was an animal—reduced to sensation and fear.

He didn’t know for how long this went on. He lost track of the number of times someone had released into—or even onto—him. Between the legs of the man in front of him was the corpse of a dead Galran knight. Keith couldn’t remember their name. Their eyes were glossed over. Keith wondered if they had been one of the knights who’d raped the enemy. He wondered if they knew how it felt.

-

The last of the captives had been freed, and Lance perched himself atop a smashed fountain, scouting his eyes over the silent glory of a conquered Galran palace. The flags had all been burnt or torn, and most of the Galran soldiers slain. Their bodies littered the courtyard and the corridors of the palace’s splendid interior.

Lance removed his canteen from his belt and tipped some liquor into his mouth. Years ago his younger siblings had been killed by Galran forces; since then his mother and father had both devoted themselves to the rebellion, and he had followed suit. Now his parents were at the top of their ranks, and commanded the Western Battalion that ultimately had conquered the last Galran stronghold, Kerboros.

The war had been long and arduous, but with this the Galrans had no place left to gather their strength. Prince Keith had been in charge of Kerboros, and Lance guessed he was soon to be publicly executed, in the same fashion as what had been done to Zarkon and Haggar. Only Prince Lotor remained at large, but the chances of him taking back anything from the rebellion at this point were slim to none.

For now, Lance could relax and bathe in this victory.

He screwed the canteen shut and slid off the fountain, landing in the dirt just in front of the palace doors. He wasn’t particularly keen about going inside to see the carnage that undoubtedly lied within. War was a reluctant reality for him; he took little pleasure in bloodshed and killing. To him, it was a necessity to avenge the deaths that the Galrans had inflicted upon his family, and little more than that.

Just then, he saw the silhouettes of his fellow soldiers exiting the palace. Lance lifted his head, lips parting to say a lighthearted word when he spotted the prisoner being dragged with them. The words froze in his chest.

Prince Keith was in chains, and a tattered cloak adorned his body. Lance had seen him before—at battlefronts and invasions, where the prince often took the head, his armor gleaming, his expression serious and focused. Now, however, the person before him looked to be someone else entirely; a vacant expression occupied the prince’s face, and his head was lowered.

“Are you taking him to the center square to execute him?” Lance inquired.

Rax, who was at the head of the soldiers, shook his head. A small smile crept onto his face. “Not quite.”

Lance’s brows furrowed together. “Then what are we doing with him?”

Rax leaned in close, wrapping an arm around Lance’s shoulders. He was a large man from Balmera, and hated the Galran Empire ever since they had shamed his sister, Shay. Lance found him a tad too bloodthirsty for his taste, but the two still had a decent rapport. “Your father gave me special orders,” Rax told him in a low voice, a hint of glee in his tone. “Prince Keith is to be our prisoner.”

Lance tilted his head, expression incredulous. “What for?”

“To lure out Prince Lotor, of course.” Rax chuckled. “And… other things.”

Other things? Lance was about to ask again when he heard the familiar romp of his father’s footsteps. He and Rax pulled apart as General Correa approached. Rax saluted while Lance gave his father a casual wave.

“Father, you knew about all this? Where are we going to keep him?” Lance asked.

Correa stepped forward and took the chains from the rebel soldier. He jerked on them, and Prince Keith stumbled forward wordlessly. Then his eyes flitted back to his son. “Lance, my son,” he said, “how much would you like to live like a prince?”

-

The thought of living in the quarters of the enemy was eerie at first, but the rebels had done a good job of cleaning up the palace so that no signs of the carnage were left behind. His father had let him take up Prince Keith’s old room, and he opened the doors with a sense of exaggerated exuberance. By now it was midday, and the sun shone gold through the windows; the room was nothing short of luxurious, with lacquered bedposts and shelves full of books and fanciful, shining swords mounted onto the walls.

He immediately shed his armor and settled down onto the bed. It sunk under his weight and cushioned his body comfortably. Lance exhaled and turned onto his side, looking out the window. From here he could see a view of the rest of the town; the rebel civilians were hard at work to rebuild and repurpose the land for themselves.

“Your dad’s calling for you,” said a familiar voice, and Lance sat up, glancing at the doorway. Hunk stood there, his expression mildly serious.

“Where is he?” Lance slid off the bed and ran his hands through his hair. Not that any of the rebel maidens were particularly any pretty, but he didn’t want to look like an idiot walking around the palace, not if he hoped to cultivate his newfound image as a prince.

“Upstairs in the left wing tower. Oh, and, by the way, food’s almost ready.” Hunk grinned and ran off, presumably in the direction of the kitchen, while Lance sighed, smiling, and headed for the tower.

When he opened the doors he was not quite prepared to see Prince Keith there. He almost jumped in surprise—but his mind caught on quickly to the fact that the prince was chained to the wall. That familiarly haughty expression was on his face again, as if the dead-eyed prince he saw exiting the palace had just been a figment of his imagination—but then the tattered clothing hanging from his frame reminded Lance that what he was looking at was no longer a prince, but just a man. A boy, even.

“What is it, Father?” Lance asked, his head turning to the General. Correa stroked his beard, his eyes flitting between his son and the former prince.

“I just thought you might want to have a word with the scum that led the attack on our village.”

Lance’s eyes widened. How had he not known? For a split second his body was cold with realization, but then a wave of anger took him. His hands shook. He said nothing as his father sauntered out of the room, shutting the door, leaving him alone with the monster that had caused the death of his cherished younger siblings.

Without another second of hesitation he lunged forward and grabbed the former prince by the collar, ignoring the way the enemy seized up in fear. “You’re going to wish we’d just killed you like we did to your father,” Lance snarled.

Keith closed his eyes, looking resigned.

“Say something!” Lance shouted, and smacked him across the face. Still the prince remained silent. Lance’s heart boiled with rage. “My family is in pieces because of you.”

“So is mine,” the prince croaked in reply, and Lance’s nostrils flared. He kneed him in the chest, and Keith bowled over, wheezing in pain. Lance blinked and stepped back—he’d hit him hard, but not that hard—surely the prince could withstand a little beating?

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked incredulously.

At this, Keith actually laughed; but it was not a very happy one. It was thin, and breathy, and threads of pain were woven into his breaths. “Just get it over with,” he said, his voice shaking. Lance paused. The wrath that had taken over him was already receding.

“Get what over with?” He couldn’t help the tinge of concern in his voice. He stepped forward and reached out—but the prince flinched away, his breathing quickening. From the sound of his frenzied inhales, Lance could tell he… he was crying?

This wasn’t right. He was supposed to vanquish the man who hurt his family at the point of a sword. The man would be a villain, maybe a general, a hardened war criminal who’d taken the lives of thousands. It was supposed to be epic and satisfying—neither of which were words that could describe what was happening before him currently. Rather, this seemed more pathetic and upsetting, if anything.

Lance was about to speak again when the door opened. His head turned to see Rax step in. His face brightened, thinking perhaps he was here to answer some questions, but then he noticed Keith immediately freezing over, curling into himself, as if pushing closer to the wall would make him any safer from Rax.

Lance’s expression was visibly bewildered, to the point where Rax commented, “Hey, man, if you don’t know how to put it in, I can show you.”

Put it in? What, like, put a sword into the prince’s body? But his father had told him not to kill, so what did Rax…

Rax tore the clothing off the prince’s body, and Lance’s brain short-circuited.

“What are you…” he started to say, but his voice trailed off when he saw the resignation in Keith’s face. No. No. Nonono. This wasn’t the first time, was it? ‘Other things’, Rax had said with a bit of a wink—was this what he meant?

Rax forced the former prince onto his knees, and then he grabbed him by the hair. “No teeth,” he warned, and then he rammed himself into Keith’s mouth. Lance was petrified. Disgusting, sloppy sounds filled the room, accompanied by the occasional sound of Keith’s choking and Rax literally moaning, commenting on how good it felt to be sucked off by a prince. Eventually Rax came, still stuffed down Keith’s throat, and as his cock slipped out, Keith coughed, flecks of white spilling from his lips.

Rax turned to Lance with a smile, as if he hadn’t just raped someone in front of him. “This is the best idea your father’s ever had.”

Lance paled. He nodded slowly, his neck stiff. He couldn’t bear to look at the former prince. Before he had to see any more, he turned and bolted from the room.

-

The General never participated; he only watched. Sometimes he provided orders. Other times he was merely a silent spectator. Keith could never tell if he enjoyed watching it, or if he simply felt it was his duty to oversee it. The man’s face was always solemn; his face betrayed no emotion. He was nothing like his son—Lance, he’d heard his name was—who wore his heart on his lips and never seemed to have the stomach to participate in these activities. Keith guessed it was likely because he couldn’t bear the idea of sullying himself with a murdering Galran whore. That sounded about right.

Keith had no idea how much time had passed. Part of him hoped he could just waste away in this tower and finally die, but whenever he became close to starving to death his weak, traitorous body would give in and eat up whatever scraps were thrown to him.

Most days it was painful and chore-like. His visitors would push his face into the ground and take him from behind. Then they would spend themselves and leave him. Other days…

The rebel was pouring a strange oil onto his hand. Its scent was almost sweet and heady, and when he shoved his fingers inside of Keith, they were slick and there was almost no burn at all. Of course, his hole was so stretched out by now that the pain was only severe when someone was too rough with him, but even still, the ease with which the intrusion slipped inside him was surprising. He gasped a bit as the fingers crooked and stroked along his walls. A blush actually crept to his cheeks. To his disgust, there was something strangely pleasuring about this.

More oil was drizzled onto his entrance, some of which slipped inside. Heat rose to his skin and flushed his face pink. Warmth began to gather in his veins towards a certain… area. His eyes widened as he realized what it was.

“This potion is the most potent aphrodisiac around,” the soldier murmured into his ear. Keith’s skin prickled and he tried to worm away, but there was nowhere to go. The man continued to finger and scissor his ass. “You’ve experienced pain, but now it’s time for you to experience pleasure.” And then his other hand reached down and cupped Keith’s balls.

The prince’s eyes widened. He squirmed. “Don’t do this…” he begged, but of course no one listened. Instead the slippery hand began to move up and down his shaft, which slowly hardened and swelled from the attention and the drug. His eyes squeezed shut as tears brimmed and droplets speckled the ground. “I don’t… I don’t w-want… ah—ahhh—! No more, no more…!”

The pace quickened, and then the fingers rubbed against a spot inside of him. Instantly his back arched and he gasped, eyes widening as he cried out. A spurt of liquid emerged from the tip of his cock, and then he collapsed, turning limp as the man continued rubbing against that spot. He twisted and protested. “Pl-please, I can’t… it’s too much—nnh!” The sensation became overwhelming and pleasure morphed into sharp pain. He started to scream, eyes rolling back—and just when he thought he was going to faint, the fingers withdrew. He slumped against the wall, trembling. There was no way it was over yet.

The man drenched his own cock in the oil and then slowly began to push in. Keith shook his head rapidly, babbling nonsensically that he couldn’t take it, but also unable to resist the immense pleasure that built up inside of him at the mere thought of being taken. The drugs continued to corrupt his mind, more and more of them being absorbed into his body, and despite all his will, he found himself pushing against the intrusion, trying to meet the man’s hips and complete their coupling.

The man laughed. “What a naughty whore you are, prince,” he whispered, and then he began to thrust rigorously. The noises that spilled from Keith’s lips were loud and frantic, and he clenched his muscles down around the thing inside of him, as if trying to milk it. He was truly losing his mind. Each stroke sent stars of pleasure rushing through him, and he was already hard again, ready to climax.

Keith came again, spurting into the air as his brain simultaneously shut down. But the man just didn’t stop. Ignoring the prince’s cries, his rapist continued with almost animalistic tenacity, ramming his hips in harder and faster. Keith kept shouting in a mixture of pleasure and humiliation—but the longer this went on, the more the last of his strength finally dwindled away, a candle under the wind.

He was coming again, he thought, but it seemed so distant to him now, as if he were no longer experiencing this himself. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. How the man kept going, how this whole situation had befell him, how good this felt. None of it made any sense.

There was no point in fighting anymore, was there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May or may not continue.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello. This isn't an update; rather, I'm writing to let you all know that I am discontinuing this fic, orphaning it, and finally deleting this account.

If you'd like to know why, you can continue reading. Otherwise, thank you for your time and interest, and I hope you all go on to have a good day.

I'm writing this explanation more for myself than anyone else... as was the nature of this account in general. Warning for possible CSA.

This account was a way for me to cope with my own trauma, although now, I can acknowledge that this was, oftenmost, a maladaptive coping mechanism. When it was at its most severe, I would spend hours on a daily basis absorbed in reading and writing fics heavily centered around non-con, which would cause me physical pain and eventually move me to tears and trigger paranoid thoughts in me. After a year of therapy I'm realizing that it wasn't necessarily the non-con itself that interested me, and in fact if it was too smutty I would often skip it, but rather the reactions of the characters surrounding the victim and the situation resulting from assault that captured my attention. Seeing a character be abused that much and be unable to confide in anyone else because the others around them ignored or mocked their pain validated my own experiences and paranoid fears towards the people who remained friends with my abuser.

It's been a little less than a year since I finally cut him off, ending a nearly ten-year relationship with someone who had been hurting me emotionally, psychologically, and sexually since I was a child. I spent those entire ten years not having my dislike of him taken seriously; it was regarded by those around me as a petty feud or some kind of falling-out, rather than the fact that his literal presence caused me to be on edge constantly, resulting in my increased aggression and irritability. When I read fics where similar things happened to rape victims, it made me feel both horrible and validated.

A lot of the fics I found on AO3 had happy endings where the victim is able to overcome their trauma and have normal sex again. I have never been able to read these endings. I always stop myself before things get better, because I know it will just upset me that I never got that same kind of catharsis. I live in the constant fear that he can come back into my life again and that no one will take what happened to me seriously. I constantly cradle what happened to me as a secret, and I know I will spent the rest of my entire life feeling persecuted for the kinds of sexual thoughts I experience as a result of my abuse.

For those who read these kinds of fics just because they find non-con kinky: by no means am I condemning you. In fact, I have a deep hatred for those who condemn people who write and engage in fictional non-con. First of all, to me it betrays a lack of understanding of what it means to be an abuse victim. Many of us end up growing up to be hypersexual. Yet the media pushes this image of a complete celibate who never thinks about sex ever again and is completely repulsed at the idea of it after their trauma. While that certainly can happen, it is not the most common experience for sexual abuse survivors. Many of us grow up with uncomfortable sexual urges that lead us to constantly harm ourselves in fear that we will grow to be like our abusers. Fiction is one of the few places where we can safely find an outlet for these feelings.

In any case, I want to close this chapter of my life and put it behind me, and deleting this account is the first step in doing so. I don't think I'll be able to drop this addiction cold turkey, but no longer having access to this account will definitely make certain things more difficult.

I won't be able to respond to any comments you leave, but I will probably still be checking in from time to time to see if any new ones are being left. I know that this seems overly heavy to put as a PSA for why an author is discontinuing a fic, but understand that this was something deeply meaningful to me that has had a hold over my life for many, many years.

Thank you if you read this, and I hope you go on to live a good life, safe and free from people who would hurt you.


End file.
